


Scheherazade

by ASentientSlug



Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Gen, This is a personal essay pretending to be fiction, heed the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASentientSlug/pseuds/ASentientSlug
Summary: Gumina tells Sateriasis stories to put off the inevitable.
Kudos: 10





	Scheherazade

Let me tell you a story about yourself, I say.

You appear interested for once.

Once upon a time there was a pretty little girl who lived in a big mansion. She had all the dolls, books, and toys she could ever possibly want in her life, and most of all, she had a secret.

The secret took form in the guise of an ugly little boy who lived in the basement of the mansion across the way. On moonlit nights, she would clamber down the trellis outside her bedroom window and scamper into the woods to play with him and his younger brother. The boy had a second face on his right cheek, but in her childish innocence, it did not frighten her. In fact, as she grew older, the face enchanted her, and she dreamed of what it would be like to love and to be loved by two mouths at once.

But alas, upon reaching womanhood, the pretty little girl found herself entangled in an arranged marriage with the much more handsome younger brother, and soon she quite forgot all about the poor, lonesome man who had once been an ugly little boy. Remembering their innocent, childish romps under the moonlight, he went to her to confess his love, but she scorned him and made a mockery of their friendship.

Cruelty upon cruelties! To heighten the tragic tale, the girl’s fiancé died before her wedding night. Weeping, the fickle-hearted girl fled into the eldest brother’s arms, yet not once did words of love ever pass the young man’s lips again. Thus both parties went to the grave, unloved and uncherished forever more.

That’s not a story about me, you say. That’s you talking about yourself.

No, I say, it is entirely about you. Only the victors write themselves into history as the underdogs.

Whatever, you say. I don’t like this story. I die at the end of it anyway. Let’s have sex.

Okay, I say, since that’s my only line in this script you’ve written for me.

There’s a song in my head that plays whenever you make love to me, and it sounds like this:

Okay, okay, okay.

What do you want to hear a story about tonight? I ask.

I want to hear about you, you say.

Why? I ask. 

Because you love me, so that means I deserve to hear about you. 

You say the word deserve like it’s a punishment.

What makes you think you deserve that? I ask. What makes you think you deserve anything?

You sigh as if my questions are a horrible nuisance. 

Everyone deserves something for their actions. I deserve to hear your story because you love me.

That’s not your action, I say. What makes you think you deserve something for anyone else’s action?

Go on with your story, you say. You said you’d tell me one.

All right, I say.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was brutally raped over and over and over by a person she thought she trusted.

Is that it? You ask.

Yes, I say.

That doesn’t make any sense, you say. Why did it happen?

What are you asking? I say.

I mean, you amend, did she deserve it?

What makes you think you deserve something for anyone else’s action? I repeat.

But it had to have happened for a reason, you say. No one can have that happen to them and just stay silent about it. Didn’t she ask for help? Or what- was she leading him on?

Over and (okay) over and (okay) over and (okay), I think. 

No, I say, the reason wasn’t like that.

So there was a reason? You ask.

What, I ask, do you really want to hear it?

Yes, you say.

Okay, (over and over and over and) I say. Here it is. Get closer.

You lean in to listen. 

I whisper in your ear, The reason is that she existed.

What? You say. That’s bullshit. That’s not a reason. You can’t have a story like that. Hell, with no reason at all, that’s not even a story!

You’re right, I agree. It’s not a story at all.

If you’re not going to tell me a real story, you huff, let’s just have sex.

Okay, I say, because I don’t think I could say no. Because then that’d be rape, and I’d rather die than be raped.

There’s a song in my head that plays whenever you fuck my soulless body, and it sounds like this:

Okay (I hope your fucking dick snaps off and you bleed out all over the floor), okay (I hope you die a thousand deaths, each more horrific than the last), okay (I hope that I suddenly come to life and take the butter knife lying there on the tea tray and stab your eyes out, I hope I stab you in the chest and the forehead and the stomach, I hope I wrench your forehead open so your brain spills out of your skull all over my breasts and I’m covered in your viscera as your filthy penis goes flaccid inside my vagina, because my god, if you’re going to overwhelm my body and my entire god damned existence, then I want you to be dead while you do it)

Over and over and over and

Let’s go back to that story from last night, you say.

You’re taking control of the narrative, like always.

What’s there to hear? I say. You know everything about it already.

No, you say. 

You think you’re very clever.

There must be more to it, you say. Sure, I’ve been thinking about it. So it’s not the girl’s fault that she was raped, but there has to be something up with the person who raped her. 

No, I say, there isn’t. It’s a tragedy, and that’s all there is to it.

What do you mean? You ask.

When a natural disaster happens, I say, you don’t blame anyone for its happening. You can’t blame a storm. You say it was a tragedy, but there was nothing you could have done to avoid it.

But that’s nonsense! You cry. The rapist is a person, and something in their lives must have caused them to make the decision to rape.

No, I say, that’s where you’re wrong. You can’t turn a rapist from their path any more than you could turn a storm. Nothing drives the storm one way or another. A storm is blind, and it carries on its reckless path regardless of any outside influence.

A rapist isn’t a storm, you argue. A person has eyes.

So does a hurricane, I say, but no man has entered the eye of the hurricane and come out the other end unscathed. 

Preposterous, you bluster. Something must have caused them to do this. Something could have been different if only the circumstances were changed. Something, something, something.

You rage on, but I ignore you, since you don’t even have the eyes to see when a story is about you in the first place. 

It could have been different, you insist. Maybe if someone had been kinder to them. Maybe if they had received more love as a child. Maybe-

You’re still controlling the narrative, and I feel pity for you, because you’re the underdog in this script you’ve written.

Whatever, you finally say. I don’t want to hear any more stories. Let’s have sex.

Okay, I say. It doesn’t matter what I do anymore, since the result will always be the same.

You hold me later on and play with my hair like I’m one of those dolls owned by the pretty little girl in her big mansion who gets raped by a man who has everything he could possibly want in his life.

You know, you say, I love you.

I say, Okay.

Over and over and over and

**Author's Note:**

> You are the author of your own narrative.
> 
> Even if you must repeat it one thousand and one times, you must understand it was never your fault.


End file.
